The One Conversation Sherlock Remembered
by Etaleah
Summary: When Sherlock has trouble finding something to wear for his and John's wedding, he finds that the one family conversation he remembers from childhood is the one that matters the most.


Six-year-old Sherlock Holmes burst into his parents' home with a huff and flung off his clothes as soon as he'd shut the door. Not caring who was watching, he dragged his shorts and T-shirt to his room and shoved them under the bed, looking sullen.

Fortunately for Sherlock, no one _was_ watching except his Uncle Rudy, who was visiting that week. He poked his head into his nephew's room curiously, watching him toddle around the room in just his underpants, apparently looking for something else to wear.

"Whatcha looking for, sweetheart?" he asked, smoothing his wig back with his fingers, which had pink nails.

"I want my good clothes," Sherlock said, yanking a hanger down from his closet. A pair of nice trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a dark jacket were attached, and Sherlock grabbed a green sweater from his closet to go with them.

Uncle Rudy put a hand on his hip. "What for? You going somewhere?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh. "No. I just like them." He spoke as if he had said it a million times over. "I don't like play clothes." He began to put them on, but struggled with the buttons. Uncle Rudy bent down to help him, and as he was zipping and buttoning Sherlock up, the boy explained further.

"Mummy wants me to wear play clothes when I'm at home and when I go to school, but I think they look rubbish. I want to wear these instead," he said, gesturing to the clothes Uncle Rudy had just finished helping him into.

The man smiled and sat on the bed. Sherlock did look more like he should be going out to a nice restaurant than hanging around the house. But if anyone could sympathize with unusual clothing choices, he certainly could.

"What did Mummy and Daddy say when you told them that?"

Sherlock scowled. "They said they're for special occasions. So did my teacher."

Uncle Rudy nodded. "They are quite dressy."

"I don't want to save them for special occasions!" Sherlock protested. "I want to wear them to school. I like them."

"So why don't you ask your mummy for more of them for Christmas or your birthday? I'm sure she would buy you some. And I doubt she would stop you from wearing them to school if you really, really wanted to."

Sherlock looked down and shuffled his feet. He swallowed. "The other kids laugh at me."

"For wearing those clothes?"

"Yes. Mycroft says it's because I look like I'm dressed for work. But I _like_ being dressed for work."

Uncle Rudy smiled and pushed himself up, ruffling his skirts. "Come here." He lifted Sherlock onto his lap and grunted with the effort. "Oh my stars, you're getting big." Sherlock smiled.

Uncle Rudy wagged a finger and raised his plucked eyebrows. "Now you listen to me, okay sweetheart?" Sherlock nodded.

"You wear whatever makes you feel happy and don't ever let anyone try to tell you otherwise. If you love those clothes and want to wear them to school or even in your room at home, I say go for it." He tapped Sherlock's nose, eliciting a giggle. "Take it from someone who knows: if you wear clothes that love you, you'll feel so happy inside that all the naysayers will just roll right off you."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "What do you mean clothes that love you? Clothes don't love."

"Oh but they do, sweetheart," he said, pressing a hairy, manicured hand to the sequins over his heart. "Clothes can love just like people can. When you're wearing the right thing, it will feel like you're getting a hug. You'll look in the mirror and see perfection and feel like you're on top of the world. You'll see yourself—more than that, you'll see who you've always wanted to be. That's how clothes show their love."

Normally Sherlock might have laughed at a speech like that, and he and Mycroft would have called it sentimental nonsense. But Uncle Rudy was tearing up as he spoke, and he was clutching Sherlock's arm like he wanted to make doubly sure the message got through.

"Always be yourself, Sherlock," he said, pressing a kiss to the little boy's temple.

"But I don't want to be myself, I want to be a pirate!" Sherlock blurted before he could stop himself. He hunched his shoulders and was grateful Mycroft wasn't there.

Uncle Rudy laughed. "Well honey, it's all right to play pretend pirate," he said, ruffling Sherlock's curls. "But if people ever try to force you to be someone or something that doesn't feel right and you let them, it'll make you feel like the saddest and loneliest person in the world."

Sherlock was confused. "How do you know?"

Uncle Rudy smiled and pulled his nephew into a hug. "Believe me sweetie, I had to find all that out the hard way."

* * *

Sherlock didn't know why he remembered that conversation so clearly. It was one of the few from his childhood that he did, and for some reason it was playing out in his head with alarming intensity as he and John walked to the wedding attire shop in central London. They were hand in hand, smiling, and Sherlock felt another spark in his chest when John's eye caught his. He loved this, holding hands with him and traversing the city together. Granted he had to slow his pace so John could keep up, but he didn't mind. When he was with John, the only time he was ever in a hurry was when they had a case.

"Remember the last time we came here?" John asked. "You deduced every person we passed on the street."

"Mm. Simple." Sherlock didn't tell him it was because he had been a walking wreck of emotions and was desperate for a distraction. He had always imagined picking out suits with John for _their_ wedding, and watching him try them on for someone else had tightened his throat the whole day. He squeezed John's hand. It still scared him how close they had come to never having this.

The wedding attire store was almost a warehouse for how large it was, but it still acted like a small business. The owner, Angelina, was one of the most sought-after wedding tailors in London and nowadays you could only get her help if you made an appointment. Sherlock and John hadn't known this last time, but Mycroft apparently had, because the whole store had practically been cleared out for them and the employees seemed surprisingly eager to help. As they walked up the front steps, it appeared the same was true this time, as Angelina walked right out the door to greet them.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, so good to see you again!" They shook her hands and thanked her. "Or are you Dr. Holmes or Mr. Watson?" she asked, winking.

"We're still keeping our names," John said as he and Sherlock followed her inside. They had briefly considered legally changing Sherlock's last name to Watson, but they thought it might complicate business with the clients and how they searched for Sherlock online, so they decided they may as well keep it.

Angelina smiled. "Lovely. Well, is there anything in particular you're looking for?" She gestured to the row of pristine black tuxedos of different sizes, all hanging up neatly. Sherlock observed that they had been freshly pressed just before their arrival. "We have all different styles and shirt colors, and we carry carnations and hats as well."

John handed her a slip of paper from his pocket. "These are our sizes. Would you show us what you've got in these? We'll browse and let you know when we find something."

"Absolutely." Angelina's smile was nearly blinding; it looked painful. Sherlock wondered what Mycroft had threatened her with. She led them down an entire corridor of suits and tuxedos until she came to a few smaller ones. "These are what we have in your size, Doctor." She pointed to the row opposite and faced Sherlock. "And those are what we have for you."

"Thank you," John said, and immediately began fingering the suits. He mumbled to himself as he pulled them out to look at them. "Ooh, very nice. Or this one could be good. Let's see here…"

Sherlock knew John liked to concentrate when he was shopping for something important, so he wandered over to his sizes. To his surprise, he felt uninspired to try anything on. He had felt that way last time too, but that had been because he didn't care what he wore so long as John liked it. He had spent many a night imagining what it would be like when he found the perfect outfit for him to marry John in, and now nothing called out to him.

"Oh, this one may be perfect," John said, holding it out. "What do you think, Sherlock?" The suit in question was similar to what John had worn to his last wedding but was more Victorian in style. The sleeves were similar to the Haversack John liked and the material was smooth. As far as Sherlock could tell, it would fit John like a glove.

"It suits you," he said, and John rushed off to find Angelina. Sherlock felt bad. Here John had already found something he liked and Sherlock hadn't even started looking. He quickly rifled through the tuxes, setting his eyes and brain to work. He made it all the way down to the aisle before he found one that seemed slightly preferable to the others and took it to the dressing room.

When he had got it on, he turned this way and that in the three-way mirror. It looked all right, but he didn't feel great in it. Just stiff and sweaty, and very hot. The collar was making his neck perspire and he wasted no time taking it off. By the time he was back in his street clothes, John was wearing the suit he'd picked out and Angelina had several employees taking measurements and notes. The pants were a little long, but otherwise John's choice seemed to fit him well.

"Find something, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Not really," Sherlock said, and put the tux back.

"Would you like some help?" Angelina asked.

"No," Sherlock said, and walked further up the store. John would probably berate him later for not saying thank you, but he couldn't worry about that now. He had to find something to wear, and he found he couldn't get Uncle Rudy out of his head. That whole business about clothes loving you may have been nonsense, but Sherlock couldn't deny that wearing clothes he liked felt akin to putting on a hero's armor. There was just something about it that made you feel good. He had experienced it with his Belstaff, his dressing gowns, and with the "work clothes" he'd worn as a child and was still wearing even now.

But these suits just weren't doing it for him.

Sherlock tried on several more and finally shoved the last one on the rack in disgust. John wandered over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy, we don't have to find them both today."

"I'm sorry. It's just, nothing feels right," Sherlock sighed.

John patted his back and stood on his toes to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek. "Then we'll go somewhere else if we have to. Don't worry." Sherlock gave him a weak smile. "I'm going to go talk to Angelina about a payment plan, I'll be right back." He hurried off before Sherlock could remind him that his family had offered multiple times to buy John a suit. John, of course, wouldn't hear of it.

Sherlock wandered toward the other end of the store. _What's wrong with me?_ He hadn't particularly liked the suit he wore last time, but he had been able to tolerate it. Something must have changed in how they were made, because now he found them confining. He couldn't imagine trying to dance in one, and Sherlock Holmes would be damned if he was going to let anything interfere with the dancing.

He broke out of his thoughts when he nearly collided with the row of bridal dresses displayed at the front of the store. He widened his eyes when he realized how soft they were. Sherlock put out a hand and touched one. It was smooth and thinner than any of the suits had been. The skirts looked like they allowed plenty of air. No sweaty thighs or balls, plenty of swish.

The deduction came to him clear as day: he wanted to wear a wedding dress.

 _Absurd_ , he immediately thought to himself. Absolutely out of the question. What would John think if he got married to a groom who was dressed like a bride? What if Sherlock—God forbid—ended up looking like Mary?

Still, he couldn't help imagining the feel of the soft material against his legs, being able to breathe as he walked and danced instead of sweat. Maybe throwing the bouquet again. He thought of John lifting the veil to kiss him. He especially liked that idea.

Sherlock knew then and there that he didn't want to wear a suit or tux, any suit or tux. He stared at the dresses, feeling the same kind of ache he often felt for his coat.

"Sherlock!" John called, waving him toward the door. Sherlock shook the thought out of his mind. _I am not wearing a dress._

But no matter what he did, he couldn't seem to shake the idea from his head.

* * *

Curse his bloody brain; here Sherlock had determined to forget the whole thing and instead he had spent all week mentally designing the perfect dress. It would be short sleeved, with no train—Sherlock hated those; they were so impractical. No, the dress would stop just above the ankle and show off his figure. John would like that. Sherlock had even seen a piece of material he liked in a catalogue, one that reminded him of the white shirts he liked to wear. The chest part would be loose, and it would probably have to be custom-made since naturally he had a broader and flatter chest than most women.

He sighed. He could dream, at least. But he couldn't expect John to agree to something so unconventional, and more than anything he wanted John to be happy. It was just one day. Hell, he would tolerate any suit for all eternity if it meant John would be happy. This was the mantra he kept repeating to himself when he and John went back to Angelina's the next week. John's suit was ready, and he figured since they had to go there to pick it up anyway, they may as well start looking for Sherlock again.

"There you are, Mr. Holmes!" Angelina said, clapping her hands together as they walked inside. "I've gone through our selection and I think I've found the perfect suit for you." She rushed behind the counter and retrieved a suit that was styled similarly to what Sherlock normally liked to wear, sort of a combination between his jackets and his Belstaff.

"That definitely looks like you, Sherlock," John said, smiling up at him. "Try it on?"

* * *

Sherlock tried to keep an open mind, he really did. He took the suit into the dressing room with John and told himself, _willed_ himself to like it. Once he had it on, he stepped in front of the mirror again.

John's grin made Sherlock's heart sink. "Wow. You look amazing." His eyes traveled up and down Sherlock's body. "That suit looks like it was made for you."

"It probably was," Sherlock said, trying his best to sound cheerful. He obviously failed, however, because John frowned.

"What's the matter with it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said.

John tilted his head. "Sherlock, I may not be much for deductions, but I can still tell you don't like it. What's wrong?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing," he repeated. He was being truthful; there wasn't anything wrong with the suit. It actually fit his tastes very well. But it wasn't what he wanted. Which John must have known, because he heaved a sigh and headed for the dressing room door. "Right then, I'll just focus on my own suit." Sherlock winced at the impatience in his voice.

While John was trying on his suit to check the alterations job, Sherlock wandered over to the dresses again. He fingered them, reveling in how soft and loosely flowing they were, compared to the stiff corners of the suits. How perfect they'd be for a pirouette. How special it would make him feel to have no one seeing his face without the veil until John lifted it. He found himself blinking hard.

"Sherlock." He jumped, not realizing John had come back. John put a hand on his shoulder and nodded at the dresses. "Is that what you want?"

"What?"

"The dresses." John's voice was gentle. "Do you want to wear a dress to our wedding instead of a suit?"

Sherlock started to say that no, of course he didn't, what on earth was John implying, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he just looked down.

John smiled. He tugged on the hem of the dress Sherlock had been admiring. "I think this would look beautiful on you."

Sherlock tried to keep his cheeks from turning pink the way they normally did when John complimented him. "Thank you." He forced himself to raise his eyes. "You really wouldn't mind?" His pulse quickened.

John cupped his cheek. "Sherlock Holmes, I wouldn't care if you wanted to walk down the aisle in a bloody bed sheet." They both giggled, remembering Buckingham Palace. "As long as you're happy, that's all that matters."

Sherlock had to restrain himself from pulling John into a crushing hug right then. A fact John must have noticed, as he said, "So. Which one do you want to try on?"

* * *

It took several attempts, but before the day was over, Sherlock Holmes had his wedding dress.

And he _loved_ it.

The dress was everything he wanted, with a slightly fuller skirt to give him that extra swish when he walked. The alterations people had been able to work magic on the front, so that it fit without suffocating him or revealing too much of his chest. As soon as Sherlock had seen it in the mirror, he had grinned like a fool and wasn't able to stop. The skirt was even long enough to hide his shoes, which were men's and would have clashed horribly with the rest of him if they had been visible. He especially loved the veil. It was soft and felt as though it were giving his head a hug, and he liked the way it contrasted with his dark hair.

As they walked home, swinging their intertwined hands, John looked up at him and smirked. "You could have just told me, you know. Would have saved us a lot of time."

Sherlock squeezed his hand. "I didn't want to embarrass you."

John stopped and frowned. "Why should that embarrass me?"

Sherlock was puzzled. "Because you care about what people think. You care that they might talk." John pursed his lips and for a second Sherlock panicked that he had changed his mind about the dress, but instead he squeezed Sherlock's hand.

"Well, I love you more," he said. "You're more important to me than all the 'people' in the world."

Sherlock was grateful they had reached Baker Street by this point, because those words made him throw his arms around John Watson, this man he loved down to the core of his very being, and hug him tight. He could feel John smiling against his cheek.

"I love you."

"I love you too." They pulled apart and John held his arms. "Whether you're playing the part of a bride or a groom."

Sherlock smirked. "Oh don't worry, I won't expect you to carry me across the threshold," he said, making a point of looking down and patting the top of John's head. John pretended to take a swing at him and they both laughed.

The most fascinating cases of his career hadn't excited Sherlock half as much as this wedding was starting to.

* * *

This time the wedding planning seemed to speed by, until at last the night before the big day had arrived. John and Sherlock had spent hours preparing, and had been fortunate enough to benefit from the help of Mycroft's lackeys and connections. Thanks to that, they had a gorgeous venue in a convenient location not far from Baker Street, where they now stood as the staff inside got everything ready.

They had decided that Sherlock would wear his wedding dress to the rehearsal dinner as well, because they wanted to get all of the gawks and staring and questions out of the way. All of that was fine for the preliminaries, but nothing was going to ruin the actual wedding day. Sherlock had put it on this morning and fallen in love with it all over again. When John had first seen it, his reaction had at first made Sherlock think he didn't like it, but then he had put his arms around Sherlock like he was the most precious thing he'd ever seen. Much as John had tried to hide it, his eyes were a little shiny. "I knew you could look good in anything," he said, shaking his head a bit. "But I never imagined…I mean you're…" Sherlock smiled and lifted his veil for a minute to kiss him.

"Thank you," he said.

Now they linked arms outside the venue and intertwined their fingers. John drew himself up and squared his shoulders. "Shall we go in then?"

* * *

"He's wearing a _dress?_ " Lestrade finally said aloud what Sherlock knew everyone was thinking. Since the venue had opened and guests had started filing in, he had gotten more stares and double takes this evening than he cared to count. Molly had widened her eyes and let her mouth fall open. Mrs. Hudson had clapped her hands to her mouth and made a little "Oh!" sound. Sherlock deduced that she had been trying not to cry tears of joy, and the thought warmed him. Mycroft had raised his eyebrows, but gave no other indication that he was even surprised. Knowing him, he had found out long before the wedding. Lestrade just stood there blinking, like he was still trying to comprehend it.

"Of course he is," Mycroft said. "You really think someone as dramatic as he is would settle for something so ordinary as a suit and tie?"

On any other day, Sherlock would have pointed out that Mycroft was technically insulting himself, as he was wearing a black suit and tie. But today he thought that, in his own way, his brother had just given him a compliment.

Everyone at the rehearsal knew Uncle Rudy long before he introduced himself. He was not only tall like the rest of the Holmeses, but wide too. His chest (which had been stuffed with what Sherlock had deduced were cotton balls) threatened to burst out of the purple dress he barely fit into, and his curly hair—which was quite obviously a wig—reached down to his knees. Sherlock thought he looked more like a woman than most of the women, and smiled to himself when he thought how pleased his uncle would be at the thought.

"My beautiful boys!" he sobbed, and grabbed Sherlock and Mycroft into a crushing hug. "I'm so proud of you both." He sniffed and kissed the top of Sherlock's head, then held them both at arm's length, much to Mycroft's relief. "Honey, do you feel good in that dress?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Much better than I felt in the suit."

Uncle Rudy blinked hard and smiled wide and proud. "Do you feel like that dress _loves_ you?"

"Oh, dear Lord," Mycroft groaned. He wasted no time in making himself scarce and helping himself to the wine bottle on a nearby table as soon as Uncle Rudy let him go.

Sherlock smirked a bit but said, "Yes." He moved from side to side, showing off the dress. Uncle Rudy squealed and took Sherlock by surprise when he clapped his hands around his waist and swung him around almost as easily as he had when Sherlock was little. Sherlock hunched his shoulders a bit but didn't protest, even when his uncle pulled him back into a hug after setting him down.

Someday, when Uncle Rudy wasn't beside himself with emotion, Sherlock planned to tell him that he had remembered their conversation even now. And that it had played quite the part in making him who he was.

* * *

The moment he had been waiting for was here, after weeks of waiting and planning and imagining. He could barely breathe as he took step after careful step down the aisle. The dress felt so good against his legs. John was standing in front of the window, with the sunlight streaming in behind him, lighting him up. The strongest of drugs hadn't matched what Sherlock was feeling now.

Sherlock had always thought that he would never get married because, rationally speaking, there was no way to know for certain that the person you were marrying was "the one." Fifty percent of marriages ended in divorce, after all, and there were billions of people in the world. And people changed their minds about things constantly; loving someone right now didn't mean you would love them in ten years.

John Watson had changed all of that. Sherlock couldn't explain it—science itself probably couldn't explain it—but somehow he knew that John Watson was his "one" as surely as he knew that the chemical symbol for water was H2O and that his birthday was January 6 and that the sky was blue. It was so obvious he didn't know how he had missed it for so long.

Mrs. Hudson was crying and Sherlock gave her a soft smile as he passed her. Uncle Rudy was a sobbing mess. His parents were tearing up a bit too, partly because they'd never expected either of their sons to ever marry and partly because they always loved to hear him play the violin. One of Sherlock's recorded pieces was playing now; he had worked on it for well over a year until it was perfect.

As he looked up from Mrs. Hudson, he noticed that John was lit up even more now that the sun had come out. He looked like an angel. Sherlock thought of the vows they were about to take. In sickness and in health, for better or worse, until death did them part. He wanted it more than anything. They were older than he would have liked, but he still felt that the balance of probability, as Mycroft would say, was on their side. Everyone in his family had lived a long life, and John was in good health and a doctor too. He would take care of them both. And even when he couldn't, Sherlock would. For all that he didn't like to think about the other wedding, he still had every intention of keeping his vow. He wanted to be there for John, always. He wanted to cuddle him after a nightmare and care for him when he got sick. Wanted to laugh with him and cry with him. Wanted to be the one person in the world John could trust unconditionally. He could face anything as long as John Watson was by his side.

John was stretching out his hand now, his own eyes wet. Sherlock took them, cherishing their warmth. He couldn't remember feeling happier or more excited in his life. He was so focused on John that he almost missed the officiator's words.

"Do you, John Hamish Watson," John cringed a little at the use of his middle name and Sherlock had to hold back a giggle. "Take William Sherlock Scott Holmes to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," John said, his voice hoarse from stifled tears.

"And do you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Sherlock wished he'd hurry up; he wanted to scream, "Yes, yes, I do!" He forced himself to pay attention and try to speak without letting his voice crack.

"…As long as you both shall live?"

"I do," Sherlock said, and he didn't quite succeed in keeping the break from his voice. He could almost feel his eyes getting red and puffy as he followed John's gaze toward Archie, who looked a lot more entertained than he had at the last wedding (granted he was a bit older now, but still) as he presented two shining silver rings. Sherlock could barely breathe as John placed one on his finger.

"With this ring you have my word that I will always be there for you, Sherlock Holmes," John said, taking a breath. "You are the best thing that has ever happened or will ever happen to me, and there is no one else on Earth I want to be with more than you."

Uncle Rudy choked and blew his nose loudly. Molly was shaking her head with a smile. Mrs. Hudson had tears streaming down her face. Even Mycroft seemed to have an awfully keen interest in the floor.

Sherlock took the remaining ring from Archie, who wiggled his eyebrows. He had charmed Sherlock into more gory pictures in exchange for good behavior. Sherlock winked at him and slowly put the ring on John's finger, half expecting to wake up in despair and realize it was all a dream. He couldn't believe he was really, finally getting what he'd wanted and dreamed of for so long.

"With this ring you have what I have never given anyone else," Sherlock said. He had thought and agonized for months over what he was going to say to John, but was still struggling to remember what he'd come up with.

"My love, and my unwavering, eternal commitment to you and only you. It's always you," he said, and though he'd had more prepared, he couldn't speak any longer. He shut his eyes and tried to wipe them, but his veil got in the way.

Possibly sensing he'd better speed things along, the officiator declared, "I now pronounce you married." When the storm of applause had died down slightly, he shouted, "You may kiss your spouse!"

Sherlock and John practically lunged into each other's arms. There was no time for delicacy; John all but threw Sherlock's veil off of his head and pulled him in for the most passionate kiss they'd ever shared. Flowers and confetti were hitting them from all directions, but they were oblivious to anything but each other. They might have stayed like that forever if not for two enormous hairy arms circling around them and grabbing them into a crushing, suffocating hug.

"I love you guys," Uncle Rudy blubbered, wetting their hair as he kissed them both. "You're such a beautiful couple, and Sherlock in that dress, I just—" He pressed them closer, making them grimace.

"Thanks," John wheezed.

"Just be careful not to tear it," Sherlock said.

* * *

If Sherlock thought the wedding ceremony was the pinnacle of happiness, that was nothing compared to the party afterwards. Mycroft had connected them with the most in-demand orchestra in town, which was playing a waltz that Sherlock had written. He and John had the dance floor to themselves; their guests stood in a circle around them, clapping. The music had a slightly faster, more upbeat feel to it than the last one Sherlock had composed, and it paired well with their movements. Sherlock loved his dress more than ever as it swished and swished against his legs. Even though he was without a doubt the better dancer, he was perfectly content to let his husband take the lead.

 _Husband_. Sherlock felt a delightful shiver every time the word ran through his head. They weren't just boyfriends anymore. They were _husbands_. And right now, he could have sworn that they were the only people in the room.

John was looking up at him with that adoring expression Sherlock loved and craved so much. He'd had to take his hands off of Sherlock's waist and shoulder a few times during the dance to run them over his eyes and face. Now he moved to dip Sherlock again, sending the crowd into a cheer and causing Sherlock to break into a big smile. He loved falling into John's arms, knowing he would catch him.

John leaned in close and spoke into his ear, just loud enough for the two of them. "You better not wear that dress at Sussex Downs," he warned. "Or I may have a hard time staying off you."

Sherlock grinned. As if the wedding weren't enough, he was getting two weeks alone with his apparently horny husband John in a beautiful bee colony. He thought he would burst from happiness. "Maybe I don't want you off me," he said, ever-so-slightly moving John's hand to his bum. The crowd began to jeer and John blushed a bit. He quickly pulled Sherlock back up as the music swelled to a fantastic pitch and spun him around. Sherlock added in a pirouette, the skirt of his dress spinning wide and almost hitting John as he spun spun spun until the dizziness overcame him and he stumbled backward, collapsing into John's arms.

The song ended and the crowd went wild, but Sherlock only had eyes for John, who was propping him up and steadying him. He shook his head, smiling. "That was magnificent," he said. "But I don't know how you weren't afraid of cracking your head on the floor."

Sherlock placed a hand on John's cheek. "I always survive a fall," he said.

John blinked hard and pulled Sherlock even closer, kissing him and holding him—dress and all—so that Sherlock was completely surrounded by love in every sense of the word.


End file.
